Grand Theft Auto: The Life Chose Me
by Big Zane
Summary: Meet Derrick Meighan, Joseph Mazzeo, and Catherine Medina-Lopez; three of Los Santos most ruthless criminals. Follow each of them as they work alongside each other and cross paths each in the pursuit of the all mighty dollar. In the end only one can stand triumphant in a business where there is no second place. Who will it be?
1. Chapter 1-Derrick

**Derrick**

 _ **From Boilingbrook with Love**_

Derrick Meighan took a deep breath and held it in. It stunk of hot asphalt, car exhaust, and gasoline. Not his first choice for his first taste of free air in five years but he wasn't complaining, after all beggars couldn't be choosers. He smiled and hoisted the garbage bag full of belongings over one shoulder, he was elated the way that only one who had just finished a long prison sentence could be. Thoughts of his mom slow grilled baby back ribs and ice cold pisswassers filled his head as he walked down the steps of the Boilingbrook Penitentiary. But first there was business that he needed to take care off. He had made a promise to someone on the inside to handle something for that person as soon as he touched the outside and Derrick was many thing; a liar, a drug dealer, a thief, and a drug dealer; but what he was not was a person who made light of a promise. A man's word was his bond.

It was noon in high summer and that meant that Blaine County was as hot as the devil's backyard. Though having only been waiting on the steps of the prison for ten minutes Derrick already had a stream of sweat running down his back. He squinted out at the heat wave that enveloped the neatly parked police cars a few feet to the right of the step and the pavement beyond them as well. He almost wished that he was back inside of the air conditioned processing office behind him. Almost but not quite. Derrick detachedly watched as another police Cruiser pulled up and two officers got out and dragged a screaming woman out of the back. She was a pretty Latina girl in her late teens, probably no older than seventeen and almost certainly her first time in custody judging from the level of hysterics that she was putting on. Derrick watched with amusement as she tried to dash away only to be stopped cold in her tracks by one of the officers who had been prepared for just such a move.

"Get the fuck out of the way." One of the officers snapped at Derrick as he physically dragged the screaming girl along. Derrick wordlessly stepped out of his path. It was none of his business and he was enjoying his newfound freedom way too much to needlessly jeopardize it so soon.

"I didn't do it I swear!" The girl hollered struggling every inch of the way. "Ask Sarah! Ask her. It wasn't me. I wanna go home. I wanna go home."

"Shut the fuck up bitch." The officer gave her a heavy one handed shove that sent her through the swivel door face first.

"We can add resisting arrest to the theft charge as well." The other officer mused bringing up the rear. "And harm. Little cunt bit me. That ought to be nuff to keep her tight. Less of these roaches out here the better. Stupid Mexicans."

"Los Santos finest." Derrick said wryly. With a shrug he hefted his garbage bag and kept on his way. He well remembered his first stay at the pen. He had been younger than the girl was probably. A newly jumped in member of the Grove Street Ballas he had been drunk on power and cheap vodka. That probably explained why robbing the neighbourhood Korean grocer had seem like such an excellent idea. Derrick smiled bitterly as he remembered the following disaster. Of course the grocer had been robbed so often that he had taken precautions. When Derrick and two other friends had charged in guns drawn the Korean grandpa had greeted them with both barrels of his licensed pump action shotgun. The only reason that Derrick had survived was that his boy Tyreek had been directly in front of him and had taken the brunt of the pellets, being killed instantly. Scared fifteen year old Derrick had done what came natural, he promptly dropped his gun and ran like hell. He ran all the way home and spent the rest of the night pacing and trembling in his room. By the next morning the pigs were knocking at his door; robbing a man that sold you your morning bread proved to be as stupid as it sounded on paper. His fingerprints on the abandoned gun and a firsthand eyewitness testimony were more than enough to airtight seal the case. Derrick stroked his clean shaven cheek with his index finger as he passed through the gates of the police compound and unto the sidewalk. He had went to prison a scared unsure boy and emerged a man. When you were a kid on the inside it was either that or die. Though he wished that he had been smarter Derrick found that he could not knock his time in prison. Sure being incarcerated was the most humiliating event a man could be submitted to. It was dehumanizing in a way few other things could ever be. You were completely stripped of your identify and in place of it given a number worth a portion of a monthly budget. You were prodded and abused and corralled like a petting zoo animal. But you got to meet people you would never normally meet and learn things you would never normally know. His most recent stint had been particularly lucrative in both those fields. Just the thought of it caused Derrick to grin deeply. Just then a black deeply tinted Landstalker pulled out of the lane of traffic and smoothly came to a stop on the sidewalk a few feet ahead of Derrick. The man's smile deepened when the door was thrown open and a man that Derrick had not seen in five years jumped out of the vehicle. He was dressed in a purple boars jersey, baggy Perseus jeans, and sand colour Hinterland boots. A gold Cuban chain with a cross medal and a gold hoop in each ear gave him the impression of wealth. Latrell Smith was Belizean by birth but had come to America so young that it made no never mind. He was not a tall man, he was five inches shorter than Derrick's six feet one, but he was a stout one. A new found obsession with bodybuilding had sculpted the portliness that Derrick recalled into heavy muscle. The bare arms which showed from the purple Boars jersey he wore were like construction derricks and his neck was now as thick as a bull's. Where Derrick was clean shaven Latrell sported a five o clock shadow and a messy goatee. Where Derrick wore his hair in mini dreadlock twists Latrell hair was close sheared into a fade. Three tear drops were tattooed under his left eye and on his neck there was the name _Balling_ in stylized script. The word _FK All Day_ were tattooed up his left forearm and a tribal sleeve ran from his right bicep down to his wrist.

"Big Trell," Derrick shouted in greeting throwing his bag to the ground and holding his arms wide. The man rushed to his embrace and gave Derrick a bone crushing hug.

"Rickey M," Latrell Smith shouted back. "My nigga! What's good balla?" The two released each other and gripped hands in greeting.

"We missed you out here something fierce dawg. A lot a shit popped off when you was behind the wall man. You know that_"

"Lets get something to eat." Derrick interrupted releasing his friend's hand. He reached down and grabbed his garbage bag. "We can rap while we eat. I just spent five fucking years eating cups of rice and reheated rat meat or some shit." The memory caused him to shudder.

"I'd kill for some fucking ribs and a cold one. There's this place in Grapeseed. El Burro by the name. Lets hit there. "

Latrell laughed and returned to the driver's side as his friend tossed his bag in the backseat before climbing into the passenger's side.

"Aight mothafucka." Latrell said. He started the car and pulled out of parking, smoothly slipping back into the flow of traffic. "Lets go eat."

Derrick melted back into his seat and closed his eyes in silent contentment. It was finally hitting home. He was out. He was a free man. This time he intended to keep it that way. He made a silent vow upon his mother's grave that he would never again call a six by eight feet cell home. There were big plans in his future and none of them included a prison cell. They blew past miles of scorched desert while making small talk and catching up. The catching up mostly one sided. Five years was a long time after all and quite a bit could change in that span. Especially for men like Derrick and Latrell who lived the type of life that they lived. For example in quick order Derrick learned that the alliance between Brough Ave and Nutdel Street had fractured. That their homeboys Ray Z and Brandon had both been killed in separate drivebys. And that their big homie Karl had been grabbed by the pigs a couple year back and was facing a life sentence, the third of his three strikes being up. Derrick listened carefully as Latrell waxed on; telling him all the goings on. He stared through the window watching the empty barren wasteland that was Blaine County flash on by at sixty four miles per hour. Every word that Latrell spoke painted a clearer and clearer picture to Derrick and a few more probing questions confirmed it. Finally Derrick held up a hand interrupting his friend's passionate tirade.

"So let me get this shit straight." He said. "You saying that Karl's on the inside, that that buster ass punk D's in the ground, and that we beefing with the Nutdel Street Killas now? Things be that fucked up huh?"

"I was saving the worst for last," Latrell said as he turned down another lane. The sober tone of voice from the normally foolhardy always joking about the worst situation kid was enough to quickly catch Derrick's attention.

"I'm telling you Rick 2013 was a bad year dawg. I swear."

"Spit it."

"When we push through you gonna find that the block's a bit vacant." Latrell said grimly. "We lost about thirty fucking people in a three way throw down n with a couple a bitch niggas from the Families and one time. A lot of people we know. A lot more we don't."

Derrick gaped at him in wordless disbelieve. He had heard the rumours before, the thing about prison was that it was almost the executive headquarters for most criminal enterprises on the streets for the sole reason that almost all criminals would spend some portion of time behind the wall. In fact, most of the high level hierarchy in most of San Andrean gangs were now inside permanently and that meant that there was little that went on the street that wasn't sanctioned on the inside first, of the little which did occur it was reported by street subordinates to higher ups on the inside asap. Basically there was no better gathering ground for information about the streets than inside of prison making it no wonder that Derrick had heard this story before. But hearing it from random ass people in exaggerated snatches and rumours and hearing it directly from the mouth of your best friend were two completely separate things.

"Gang green hit us?" He finally managed to say. "They hit us and took out thirty of the homies. _Thirty?_ "

"It was Lamar Davis," Latrell spat. "And his boy Franklin."

"The only Lamar Davis I know," Derrick said confusedly. "Is this retarded ass lanky janky looking mothafuka from Chamberlain."

"That the one."

"Hell fucking nah!"

"Exactly what I said but over four people be singing the same song mang. Gots to be true."

There was little more conversation after this as they pulled into Grapeseed and the scorched sand and shrubbery began to be replaced by the debatably better run down one room buildings and battered sun blasted trucks. Derrick leaned back and sighed deeply. _What you'd think nigga,_ he thought bitterly, _that you'd come back and everything would be perfect and easy and just waiting for the picking. You better than anyone should know it's never that easy._

"Who's holding things down now?" He asked after several minute of silence.

"Brambles trying to keep things together but shits been so fucked up lately that everyone on some every man for himself shit." Latrell replied as he turned another road and ventured deeper into hick central.

"Oh shit," Derrick said excited. "Brambles be the big homie holding shit down now? No shitting."

Ryan 'Brambles' Jackson was five years Derrick's senior but Derrick knew the man well. He had used to run with Derrick's twin brothers back in the old days and had often spent time at the Meighan house in Derrick's childhood days. It was a stroke of luck. The year he had been arrested the highest OG on Grove Street had been an old hat by the name of Kevin Sanders but not long after he had been incarcerated Kevin had been shot to death outside a Burger Shot. From what he had heard it had fallen to a coterie of younger OG's to run the Grove, but among them was D. Derrick wanted D nowhere around him and the new business opportunities that were in his future, the man was stupid and greedy and untrustworthy. If Brambles was in charge then there was still some hope. The man wasn't too bright from what Derrick could remember but he was solid, Derrick had no problem with that as he intended to be the sole brain of any personal enterprises from now on.

"So whats up g?" Latrell asked giving Derrick a long sidelong look. "What's cracking? Why didn't you tell nobody but me you was jumping the pen today? For that matter why you'd want me to keep it secret?"

In view of past events Derrick now realize that the secrecy had been unneeded but at the time he had no way to have known for sure. He returned Latrell's look wondering how much he could tell him. In the end he decided with the truth. Latrell had been his best friend since the sandbox and in all that time the other had not given Derrick any reason to not trust him.

"I've got something big planned g." Derrick told him unable to hold in his smile of elation. "I met this kat on the inside. White guy that used to buy smokes from me all the time. I stopped him from getting shanked to death by a couple of Mexicans in the shower."

At that Latrel burst out in raucous laughter.

"A good old fashion fight to death for your booty huh big dawg?"

"Man fuck you," Derrick snapped. "But yeah I was telling you this white boy ain't no normal cracker yo. When he bust the infirmary we began talking. Turns out he on some next level shit. Real talk. This kat be a big man."

Latrell gave Derrick a long curious look before he returned his attention to the road. Derrick chuckled knowing he now had his friend's true attention.

"How so?" Latrell asked turning another lane.

"His name is Dominic Yaxley." Derrick said. "He got nabbed for drug trafficking. Not nothing small time Trell, this nigga got grabbed at the boarder with a van full of white. A van full. Pure uncut white."

It took a second for the implication of what Derrick had said to sink in with Latrell.

"If he's moving that much weight," Latrell said slowly. "Especially across from the boarder then he's got to know someone. You don't get that much weight uncut."

"Exactly." Derrick said with a nod and a laugh. "He didn't mention no names but he's confirmed to me that he's at the top of the food chain. He moves weight directly for a supplier.

He says that because of the crackdown last year his supplier operation has been hit hard and that the big kat is looking to rebuild. If I prove myself trustworthy that he says he can set up a meeting. Bring me on the inside."

Latrell brought the car to a stop and Derrick saw that they were outside the El Burro restaurant. It was a modified rusted trailer with a three step and a rickety sign. There was a three car parking lot and a bike rack all unoccupied. Derrick puzzled at that until he checked the dashboard and saw it was ten fourteen am. After breakfast but before lunch. In small town America those were the true ghost hours. He had time then but still he would need to be quick.

"How do you know this nigga ain't full of shit." Latrell demanded. Derrick snapped his attention back up to his friend. "Niggas say a lot of shit on the inside. Especially when they trying to prove their gratitude. How you know this nigga ain't taking you for a ride? Sounds like a tall tale to me."

"I thought the same thing," Derrick admitted. "But if nothing else Dominic got pull. All the fools that was involved in his stabbing are dead dawg. All of them. Some hang themselves. Others were shot trying to escape. Others choked on their food. But all of them be in the ground now. That guards were involved is definite."

Latrell took that in and chewed over it for a second, biting his lips as he always did when he was deep in thought.

"Still," he said grudgingly. "Lets say he's still someone big. Maybe a white guy with a bit of paper to bribe a guard or two. Or a senator's boyfriend. What prove do we really got that he is what he says?"

"None." Derrick said flatly. "But the nigga seem legit. Even if he's bullshitting he put me in touch with this friend of his who needs some work done. We gonna be paid for whatever we do at the very least. What we got to lose?"

Latrell had no answer to that so Derrick continued.

"That's the reason I only hit you up cuz. I want to get this shit sorted and verified before I bring it home ya feel me? If it checks out, if we can get an actual supplier on the team..."

He left the rest unspoken for there was no need. Latrell knew as well as he what it meant to actually be in contact with a drug supplier. In the world of the underworld the distributor, the person who bought wholesale from the supplier, was king. It meant massive profits because you were the one who decided the market price of the drug since you were the one who received it wholesale. You could resale it wholesale at a great mark-up or you could cut it and piece it out for even more. It meant less risk. When you moved weight you didn't have to fight tit for tat for streets and corners to make a living no more, the hustlers who fought tit for tat for streets and corners now came to you hat in hand for a decent price for product. You had less police exposure because now you were at the top of the food chain and dealt with less people. It meant less enemies because Vagos, Families, Ballas, Aztecas, or Mara Bunta; it didn't matter. The only thing most gangbanger loved more than blasting enemies was making green and if a price for product was good enough they would rather do business instead of make war. It would give Grove Street a level of power that would see them back on top. With Derrick at the helm of course. The thought caused him to grin.

"Aight cuz I feel that." Latrell held his fist out for a bump. "I'm still a bit unsure but if true. Then damn dawg. Fuck. Beautiful."

The two bumped fist and shared a laugh then Derrick was all business.

"You brought that shit I asked for?" Derrick asked.

"Glove compartment." Latrell grunted.

Derrick opened the compartment and took out a black nine millimetre Hawk & Little pistol. He grimaced down the sight, it was not his first choice of weapon. Automatic pistols were crude, simplistic, and faulty by nature. Revolvers on the other hand...but still a beggar could not be choosy. With a shrug he ejected the clip, checked it over and slapped it back in before chambering it with a resounding _click-clack_.

"Damn dawg," Latrell said with a laugh. "Not even an hour out the pen and you already fittin to do some shit. You savage though."

"whatever fool," Derrick said sliding the weapon into his waistband and covering it with his shirt. He made sure his clothes was settled before opening the door and stepping out. "Keep the car running. I won't be long."

"Aight dawg," Latrell replied. "Sure you don't need no backup up in there? You know I stay with my heat." He lifted up his shirt front to reveal the truth of his words and sure enough in his waistband was a visible gun butt.

"Nah homie. Just keep the shit running. We fittin to raise up out of here quick."

With that Derrick headed towards the diner.

Inside looked as drab and bleak as the outside. It was all hardwood, everything from the flooring to the walls to the long counter. Tables with ratty tablecloth and battered chairs were strategically placed around and three private booths were set up by one wall underneath a window. A ceiling fan spun lazily but did little to diminish from the stifling heat. Three led off from the main room. One was directly behind the counter which Derrick assumed led to the kitchen, the other two would then be to the bathroom and to an office of some sort. A bored looking frumpy woman was behind the counter reading a magazine. She was Latina and looked to be in her earlier thirties but her face was plastered with poorly done makeup and her hair was up in a tight bun both of which added almost ten years on her appearance. Upon hearing the door open she glanced up curious. Upon seeing Derrick her eyes widened almost comically. _You would have think she's never met a black man before._ Derrick thought amusedly as he approached. _In fact in a fucked up hick town like this that's possible._

"Good morning." Derrick said with a jaunty smile. He looked down at the small name tag on her right breast. "Anna right?"

The woman nodded her head slowly.

"Coffee and a side of eggs and bacon please." Derrick ordered.

"Cook already left." The woman said hesitantly. "Won't be back until eleven thirty for the lunch crowd. And coffee machine is broken."

"Ok." Derrick said with an arched eyebrow wondering exactly what type of eating establishment didn't have coffee. The place took another nose dive in his opinion. "Can I get a glass of orange juice?"

"I'm sorry we're all out."

Derrick closed his eyes and took a deep breath. His smile had now frozen as his irritation grew.

"What exactly do you have right now?"

"Kidney and steak pie from this morning." She said. "And grits."

"Grits?" Derrick blanched. "In fact you know what, fuck it. Is your boss around?"

"No."

Her reply was too quick for Derrick's liking. It looked like he was doing things the hard way. Fine by him. Without any warning Derrick reached forward and seized the woman by the throat cutting off her scream. A vicious open palm smack to the face stunned her enough for Derrick to bodily haul her from behind the counter.

"I'll ask one time bitch," He snapped. "Is he in the back?"

"Yes." The woman sobbed out. Derrick briefly considered whether or not killing her was necessary but in the end decided against it. Still holding her tightly by the throat he pulled out his gun from beneath his shirt. The woman gave a horrified sob and suddenly he caught the scent of urine. Wrinkling his nose Derrick reversed his grip on the weapon and slammed the hilt between her eyes as hard as he could. The woman's eyes rolled up and she slumped boneless to the ground. He rose up and made his way to the office door. Taking a firm grip on the pistol Derrick counted to four and then he stomped the door as hard as he could. The thin cheaply pressed wood was no match and the door flew open with a noise loud enough to raise the dead. Inside the office was sparsely furnished. There was a cabinet in one corner and a closet in the next. A desk with a very bewildered looking man sitting behind it took centre stage.

"El Burro?" Derrick inquired.

The man was of Hispanic descent and by Derrick estimation he must have weighed at least two hundred pounds. He had no neck, apparently having trade it all in for double the amount of chin of a regular person. The man was shaved completely bald and was tattooed from the neck going down. He wore a grimy white shirt which did little to hide his bloated gut and a pair of jeans. Derrick noted with amusement that one of the tattoos upon his exposed belly was literally the words El Burro in stylish script.

"Yup," Derrick said with a nod. "El Burro alrighty."

The man stared at Derrick with enlarged eyes and from nowhere sweat had begun to bead his brows. The fear coming from him was almost palpable.

"Whatever they're paying you," The fat man said quickly. He had a slight Midwest accent, like someone who had grown up in Carcer or Liberty city. "I'll double it. I swear."

Derrick laughed and aimed the gun directly between El Burro's eyes. He slowly walked forward.

"You fucked with the wrong people you fat motherfucker," Derrick told him. "But if you have enough I might forget I saw you today."

El Burro hurriedly open up a desk drawer and produced a thick role of bills.

"Five grand," He said. "A down payment. I can get you more. A lot more. Just let me go."

Derrick cocked his head as he was considering it.

"I work with this guy," El Burro babbled. "Mexican guy. A cartel leader. Mr. Madrazo. You know Mr. Madrazo? Martin Madrazo.

Of course everyone knows Mr. Madrazo. He would pay a lot to keep me alive and fuck up anyone who kills me. Just let me go and_"

Derrick pulled the trigger and a mist of brain and blood splattered the chair behind El Burro's head. He slumped down unto the desk, a bloody hole now in the centre of his forehead. Derrick shot him twice more in the back of the head just to be certain. Quickly Derrick pocketed the money and began rifling through the desk drawers. Finding nothing else of value he turned his attention to El Burro and found a leather wallet. Slipping that into his pocket he gave the dead man one last look before turning and running from the room.


	2. Chapter 2-Joseph

**Joseph**

 **A Friend of Mine**

Joseph Mazzeo slinked back into his car seat and pulled deeply upon the Redwood cigarette between his lips. He idly wondered how many times he had vowed to give them up and how much times he had now broken that vow. Much more than was politic to admit if he was honest with himself. Truth be told he only ever smoke when he was stressed, it was his way of coping with the pressure. Had been since grade school. It just showed how messed up things were lately that he was smoking enough to give an industrial chimney competition _._ He squeezed the steering wheel tightly and tried his best to steady his racing heart.

He was scared.

It was a new sensation for him and one he heartily despised. Fear was so alien to the world he inhabited that he had no idea how to deal with it. There had been no place for fear in his life when he was a kid. It was bad enough that he was Irish Italian growing up in the mixed but highly segregated neighbourhood of Northside Purgatory, Algonquin Liberty City. Not even his father's reputation could have kept the other kids, Italians and Irish both, from jumping him on his way to and from school but it had been his lack of fear that had kept him fighting back no matter how often they came or how outnumbered he was. He hadn't been scared in two thousand five either, when as a freshly minted marine he had stormed Iraq in the heights of the Iraq War. He had been twenty two years old at the time and while men twice his age had been shitting all over their pants he had kept it together. No he hadn't been scared then, he hadn't even been scared after that when he was dishonourably discharged and shipped off to Alderney State Correctional Facility for a ten year bid after shooting a fellow marine during what he called a heated argument. Joseph grimaced as he remembered his time in the hardest prison on the east coast. Alderney State...now Alderney State had been hell. More so for an Irish Italian. Things had changed since the eighties and early nineties. Now the prison was controlled by the _muligna, and_ the _ispanici,_ with a healthy serving of radical skinheads. _Niggers and spics and methed up racist skinhead._

Thinking back he decided that it was a miracle he had survived in the first place. He had friends, powerful friends and they had done what they could for him inside. His ten year bid had become eight and the guards had taken a decided interest in his wellbeing, the cellblock he had been on had been one of the quietest because of the frequent checkups and monitoring, but his friends could only do so much. They had no direct control in such a place no more than any man no matter his importance have control over a cage full of starving feral rats. Yet he still hadn't been scared. He had been worried of course, he wasn't stupid and knew the dangers facing him, but it had been controlled. Manageable. In fact, once he had almost beaten to the death a couple of niggers in the showers after they had tried to take him for fresh meat things had almost been okay even.

But now...now his heart was thundering so hard he could scare hear the Adele that was playing softly through the car's premium speakers. His mouth was dry and his tongue heavy. What felt like a molten ball of lead had somehow settled right in the bottom of his stomach and just refused to go away. Joseph scowled and took another deep dreg from the cigarette. Once again he held in the smoke for a full five seconds before finally allow it to drift from his open mouth.

His black Ubermacht Oracle XS sedan was parked in a tight alley between what looked like a boarded store of some type and a rundown looking apartment building. From what Joseph could see such buildings were an all too common occurrence in Strawberry. His lights were off, the couple of street lamps in the immediate area had been shot out some time ago leaving the surroundings in relative darkness, and the car itself was black down to the smoky tint on every window; he was certain no one could see him unless they stumbled down the alley and directly upon the vehicle. It was just a little after eleven thirty pm. Late for the regular stiff but early for everyone else. Indeed the main street directly before him had its share of them. Hookers plying the world's oldest profession, pimps not far away to protect their investment, and dealers keeping both parties motivated with their wares.

Directly in front of the alleyway on the opposite side of the street was the reason that he was parked at that particular spot. She was five foot nothing, sixteen years old, and scared so stiff that Joseph could tell from the opposite side of the street. Dressed in nothing more than a white camisole and a leopard print mini skirt she looked no different from every other whore on the block except a bit fresher and a bit younger. In a couple of months those two attributes would be gone as well, the street always claimed its due.

Her name was Nancy Reilly. Formerly of Mariet South Harroline and Joseph was willing to bet that she was deeply regretting running off with her scumbag of a boyfriend. Her scumbag of a boyfriend who had owed Joseph's boss a _lot_ of money and had made his escape one night leaving her to face the music. Joseph shrugged. He didn't care either way; all he cared about was that the girl did what she was told. As if in answer to his thoughts a white Cavalcade tinted almost as deep as Joseph Oracle came into view and slowed down beside the young woman. Joseph's view of the girl was obstructed for a few seconds but he could distinctly hear the opening and the closing of the car door and when the car moved off a second afterwards the girl was gone. He counted to thirty in his head before starting the car and pulling out of the alleyway.

The Cavalcade led them to a slightly less rundown part of Strawberry, in a neighbourhood named Misson Row. Here at least the shops weren't boarded over and graphitized, the streets were marginally less covered in trash, and the whores not as brazen. Once again Joseph found himself smoking a cigarette and staring out his windshield. This time the object of his scrutiny was a double storey apartment building across from the parking lot he had pulled into. A few minutes ago Nancy Reilly and the man that he was supposed to kill had illegally parked the Cavalcade in front of the building and entered it. Angelo Luccio. Crazy Angi. An unbidden smile came to Joseph's smile as he thought about their history. He had met Angelo almost back in diaper days. In fact Angelo had led one of the set of Italian boys who had so tormented him growing up. After a fist fight or a hundred somewhere down the line their mutual hatred had deescalated to grudging respect. They didn't strike up a friendship but Angelo had deigned to leave him in peace. The friendship started in earnest in high school when a couple of Ballas had attacked Joseph in retaliation for showing them up on the basketball court. Joseph shook his head in bemusement. Beating black folk at their own game was a capital crime apparently. At five to one and with the element of surprise the junior gangsters were well on the way to giving young Joseph a brutal beating when Angelo had came running out of nowhere swinging a bike chain and cursing in Italian. It took all of twenty seconds and by the end of three of the Ballas were leaking blood on the ground unconscious and the other three putting their hood gotten skills to use and running as fast as any Olympic sprinter. Angelo had helped Joseph to his feet and Joseph had given him a tacit thank you.

He knew why Angelo had done it of course, at a high school where they were fast becoming the minority all Italians, even the half ones, had to stick together. It was as simple as basic survival instinct. Whatever the case the two soon struck up a fast friendship. A friendship that had only gotten stronger when a couple years later they had both been approached by the same great man with an offer for gainful employment. It so happen that it was that very same man that had ordered Angelo's death and it fell on Joseph to carry out the order. That was just the way things worked. He knew it. He understood it. But he was having a hell of a hard time accepting it. It was not the killing aspect which brought him up short; in his time he had killed men, he had ordered men killed, and he had watched them being killed in all sorts of gruesome ways. It was part of the lifestyle and a part that he had accepted as a grim but necessary reality long ago. He took no joy in killing people but neither did he hesitate when he had to.

No, the killing aspect of it was no problem to him. But killing a friend was. With a deep sigh Joseph opened the glove compartment and withdraw a Hawk & Little fully automatic pistol. He spent a full minute staring at the weapon trying to gather his thoughts. At of the end of the day, Joseph decided, he had misgivings and doubts and he would rather be anywhere but here. However none of that mattered. The order had been given. He didn't have the luxury to decide whether or not he would carry it out. Having made up his mind Joseph checked the gun, force of habit more than anything else, and snatched up a few more rounds from the same glove compartment. The magazine was full of course and he would only need one out of the twelve rounds to carry out his mission but if there was one thing in life he had learn it was that you could never be too careful. Just then his phone began vibrating. He withdrew the myphone six from his pocket and a swipe of thumb across the screen revealed a single text message with a single word: room 15. Joseph grunted with approval. The girl had done her part he'd have to remember. It was show time.

He exited the car and casually made his way across the parking lot. The night was hot and muggy and the air was full of the ambient music of city living. The murmur of far off traffic, the muted buzz of electricity moving somewhere, a TV announcer shouting incoherent words from a TV somewhere around. Naturally this part of the city also featured a few different sounds unique to the location; the hum of a patrolling unseen police chopper, the loud but distance bangs of some far off gun battle, and of course the ever present wail of sirens.

"How the hood take me under," Joseph sang to himself in a pitched off key voice. "Davis!"

A tinted black Albany pulled into parking lot as he was walking. Joseph could almost feel the scrutiny of the occupents so he spared the car a brief glance. Four African Americans. All probably gangbangers. Young punks. All of them were scowling at him in what they thought must be an intimidating matter. _Balls to that laddies, I learned to play that game with the big boys._

He shouldn't be to surprise at that. Admittedly the fact that he did not belong there was glaring obvious. There just weren't that many six feet plus ginger haired Anglo Saxons in a predominantly black neighbourhood. The fact that he was dressed in a smart charcoal designer suit and white shirt from Perseus, black oxfords, and a long black coat probably didn't help either. The young men in a car must be trying hard to categorize whether or not he was a lost banker and thus a mark or some sort of professional hitman and thus a threat. Joseph wasn't shame to admit he was praying they made the round choice. These weren't friends. He would feel no confusion at all about killing them all. He slipped his hand in his coat pocket and gave them a cheery smile to goad them on. The car full of hoodlums seem to come to conclusion that he was no easy mark after all. The car kept on driving.

"Pussies." Joseph scoffed.

The apartment was standard to its type. The entrance led to a long hallway and the hallway led to a stairs. There were doors on either side of the hallway. Three doors a piece. Rooms one to six. That means that the room he was looking for was on the third floor. The place was mostly quiet. Most people were still out and those who home would be quietly tucked way behind computers, televisions, and tablets. There was no way to know how many people were actually in the complex and no time to find out which had Joseph a bit worried but he decided that he was okay for the most part. This was the quintessential ghetto. No one here would call the cops for something as common place as gunshots. Even if they did they would be lucky if the cops responded sometime within the next four hours. Plenty of time for Joseph to make good his own escape.

His luck ran out on the stairs going up to the third floor. Halfway up he heard footsteps coming down and then Joseph found himself face to face with two men. Albert Leon and Joey Sazzo. Both members of Joseph's organization. Both close of friends of Angie. For a second all three men stood stunned. Then with a shout Albert went for his waist.

Joseph was faster.

His gun rose smoothly and barked twice. The first bullet caught Albert of the throat, blowing out the back of his neck in a blood mist, and the second bullet hit him in the cheek below the eye. His head jerked back and he fell backwards, almost in slow motion to Joseph's eyes. With a jerk of his hand Joseph realigned the gun on Joey but he found that the other man was bulling towards him. Startled Joseph hesitated to pull the trigger for a split second. It was too much. Joey closed the distance and swatted at Joseph's gun hand. His shot went wild and a woman screamed a terrified scream. A fist slammed into the side of Joseph's head hard enough that stars exploded into his vision. In his mouth he tasted blood. _Motherfucker!_

Joseph ducked low and the second punch meant for him splintered the cheap board of the wall instead. Ducking low brought Joseph in proximity to the older Italian's midsection and he wasted no time in ramming his own fist in Joey's stomach. The man grunted and took a step back, stumbling because of the steps. Joseph launched his forehead forward like a cannon ball and it connected with Joey's face with a nasty crunch. It was a nasty blow, a devastating blow. One that Joseph had used time and time again and one that never failed to produced results. He had seen a forehead to the nose knock a man out cold, leave him as a whimpering wreck, and flat out kill a man by pushing bone shards directly into the brain. None of that happened this time around. Joey Sazzo's nose was a bloody pulp and one his eyes immediately began swelling but none of that slowed him down. The husky big bellied man bellowed in rage and wrapped his two ham like hands around Joseph's throat immediately cutting off his air supply. Joseph instinctively raised a knee, trying to hit the man in between the legs. Joey saw the move coming and managed to twist enough to take the majority of the force on his thigh. This only seem to enrage him more and with another shout he bodily lifted Joseph and slammed him into the wall.

Pain lanced through Joseph when his head slammed nastily into the wall behind. Once again he saw stars. Before he could prepare himself Joey pulled him forward and slammed him into the wall once again. Cold dread pooled at the bottom of Joseph's stomach as his lungs cried for oxygen. Life giving oxygen which was denied. He desperately thrashed at the man but the grip of those two thick hands was merciless. With one last push of effort Joseph slammed his gun into Joey's temple. The grip slackened fractionally as the other man stumbled but it was all the break Joseph needed. He bulled forward pushing Joey towards the railing. The other man was thicker and heavier but Joseph had the advantage of better leverage. Joey clung to the railing with the undeniable strength of a terrified man. In one crystallized instant Joseph took it all in. The white of his panic filled eyes. The sweat stain on the pits of red silk shirt. The stink of his fear.

With a savage snarl he leaned forward with all his body weight.

It was him versus Joey and the two strained for a moment. Then there was the loud crack of breaking wood and Joey fell backwards with a shriek. Without missing a beat Joseph aimed down and pulled the trigger four times in rapid succession. Joey was dead by the time his body crashed onto the floor below.

He took a brief moment to recover his breath but not long enough to allow the adrenaline to wear off. His head where he had been punched was already throbbing as was the back of his head but there was no time to nurse wounds now. All around him he could hear shouts and curses and footsteps. He had to get his mission done and get out of there immediately. Without further thought Joseph began sprinting up the stairs towards apartment fifteen. He was just outside the door preparing to kick it down when he narrowly avoided death for the second time that night. Without quite knowing why he found himself leaping to the floor. A fraction of a second later he was glad he did as a large part of the upper room blasted outwards in a storm of lead and splinters. The boom of a shotgun followed a moment later.

He could hear Angie cursing and the girl screaming at the top of her lungs. Joseph paid them no mind as he rolled out of the doorway and towards the wall, coming up in a crouch.

"Mothafucka you're dead!" Angie hollered pulling the trigger once more and blasting another portion out of the door. Joseph pushed his hand through one of the holes and blindfired four quick shots into the room. He heard Angie scream. This time with pain. Joseph jumped to his feet and rushed the door. A quick kick sent the weakened door flying off the hinges and in one second Joseph took in the entire scene. Angie stood in the middle of the room clutching his side with one hand, a sawed off double barrel clutched in the next. A naked Nancy Reilly was curled up beside a ratty loveseat sobbing and screaming. Screaming Angie tried to line up a shot but Joseph calmly put a bullet in his leg and the man collapsed.

"Joe," Angelo Luccio said confusedly looking up at him with clouded eyes. "Joey? Joey the Mick?"

Joseph grimaced as he stepped forward. He had always hated that nickname. It was given to him at grade school in malice and still stuck with him when he joined the mob thought his associates used it endearingly. Being an Irish Italian Joseph guess it was inevitable but still he hated it.

"Hiya Angie." He said quietly.

"I shoulda known," Angelo gasped. He tried to get up but only managed to get to his hands and knees. Blood pumped steadily from his stomach staining his blue shirt a deeper blue, enough gushed from his leg to form a pool on the floor below. "Shoulda known they'd send you's."

"Yeah." Joseph said. He noticed detachedly that his hand was trembling. The adrenaline was wearing off and all his misgivings had come back.

"You don't have to do this." Angelo said. He vainly squeezed at his leg trying to stop the blood flow. "You don't have to do this Joey. You don't!"

"I don't have no choice. You brought this on yourself."

"Its Sal Joey." Angelo desperately went on. "Sal. Sal's a fucking liar! He been trying to get rid of me for some time now. I ain't no snitch. He lied!"

"I saw the reports." Joseph said coldly. "I saw the reports and the statements. DOA. Special narcotics division. Your name your statements. Four of our guys got taken down because of you. Charlie. Gino Lips. Frank Two-guns. Reg. Good guys. Friend of ours."

"Joey you's got to believe me. Sal's a fucking_"

"You're the fucking liar here Angie." Joseph cut him off. " _Sei un cazzo di toppo!_ "

"You think this will make you better!" Angelo shouted spittle spraying from his mouth. "You're nothing to them Joey! I heard them talking. You're just fucking half mick prick that they keep around for kicks. Why you think you haven't been made yet? They're never gonna make you! You're just a joke to them. A joke to Sal."

"Shut up now." Joseph said softly.

"What has Sal ever done for you Joey?" The other man continued. "What has he ever done? Except bring in a rising star to his own _regime._ One who gets shit done and one he can get rid off without any trouble and anyone batting an eye because he isn't even a real fucking Italian!"

Joseph pulled the trigger and Angelo jerked as a bullet shattered his cheek. He pulled it once more and this time Angelo sank to the floor permanently, a hole between his eyes leaking brain matter and blood. A renewed scream reminded Joseph he wasn't alone in the room. He turned the gun upon the girl who at once began blubbering and begging incoherently.

"You were never here." Joseph said hoarsely. He felt like he was going to be sick. "You were never fucking here okay? Leave. Get out!"

The girl leapt to her feet and ran from the room without bothering to pick up a shred of clothing. Joseph took a deep breath before turning to do the same.

-8-

The Little Corleone restaurant resembled something that had been snatched out of a period movie. It was a throwback to an earlier time where Italian immigrants had little more enjoyment in life than a warm plate of spaghetti with tomato sauce. A small squat building made from brownstone that had seen the come and go of a dozen generations, with a wide display window gave an almost unobstructed view inside and cheery pink and white canopy covered the small patio before it. Once it had been the most popular joint around but as time marched on the clientele had become restricted to just a few men and their chosen acquaintances. That was why when Joseph pushed the door open and entered and saw only three people at the heights of what should have been the lunch rush hour he was not surprised. The inside of the restaurant was as small and cosy looking as the outside. The floor was thick beige carpet and he walls hardwood. A long old fashion counter was off in one corner and in front of the door that led to the kitchen. The only other door besides the entrance was off to the left and had the label of a unisex bathroom. There was five wooden dining sets scattered around all of them polished to a sheen. Two of the sets were up against the wall directly beside the entrance and they were set up into private booths. It was at the one furthest way from the door that the two men whom Joseph had come to meet with sat having lunch.

"Heya," One of them called. He waved his fork upon which was speared a fat piece of sausage in Joseph's direction. "Joey! Come on. Pull up a chair."

The man who spoke looked like the type of man that would be shovelling down huge amount of pork sausage and stuffed peppers. He resembled a barrel more than anything else, shorter than Joseph by head and shoulder but almost twice as wide. Folds of doughy flesh almost covered his dark brown eyes and his thin greying and receding hair was slickened with jell. His nose was red from alcohol abuse and his lips were too small for his mouth constantly giving him an almost an idiotic puckered face look. The man was so fat that Joseph could see the strain of the topmost button of his white silk shirt. A shirt he noted offhandedly that was already stained with sweat around the arms and at the neck, he probably needed to see a cardiovascularist and fast. Along with the white shirt he wore black slacks that must have been a size omg and black loafers, his only attempt at frippery was a thin gold chain with a cross and a plain wedding band. Indeed Salvatore Barone known aptly as Big Sal didn't seem like much, Joseph personally thought he looked like nothing more than a diabetic butcher that was on the last of his forty five year's life expectancy, but if there was ever a living case of never ever to judge a book by its cover it was the man. One did not get to being caporegime of a mafia family by being squeamish; and one did not stay in the position for over thirty years by being anything short of ruthless and cunning. Joseph took the chair beside him, directly facing the next inhabitant.

Unlike Salvatore the other men was on the opposite spectrum of the weight line. He was thin to the point of gauntness and just as tall as Joseph. If not for his overly large ears he could have made a passable streetlamp. He had a thick full head of grey hair and a long aquiline nose that was crooked in more than one places indicating multiple breaks sometime in the past. He was also almost bursting at the seams with nervous energy. His cobalt blue eyes constantly flickered from corner to corner and even though it appeared he had finished his meal some time ago he was absentmindedly pushing a few crumbs of bread around the plate with his fork. Noting Joseph's glance he gave the younger man a tight-lipped smile.

"Joseph." He said reaching a hand across the table. "How you been? Sally here was just talking about you."

"Mr. Anguillo," Joseph said nodding his head deferentially. It was only smart, Fredrico 'Freddy A' Anguillo was not a man to be disrespected. As consigliore and best friend to don Gulliano he was literally the second most powerful man in the organization. He briefly traded grips with the old man. "i've been okay sir."

"Please call me Freddy."

"How'd it go?" Asked Salvatore between bites of sausage. He looked at Joseph with keen interest and Joseph felt an almost irrational surge of anger. He knew better than to listen to the words of a man who was pleading for his life but Angelo...Angelo wasn't wrong. He loved Salvatore like a father but that meant nothing in the world of the mafia. What had Salvatore truly done for him? Truly. Besides bringing in a competent rising star whose success only served to make Salvatore himself all that stronger.

"I got him." Joseph replied softly reaching for the glass jar of limonchello at the table and helping himself to Salvatore's empty cup.

"I'm sorry." Salvatore said sounding genuinely remorseful. The old man glared at the sausage as if though it had pulled the trigger. He nibbled the edge slowly after a great sigh.

"It happens." Fredrico said gravely. "Sometimes even the cleanest kitchens get a rat infestation. That's why you's gots house cleaners."

"All these rats." Salvatore said. "All these fucking varmint. Jesus Christ what the fuck happened?"

He shook his fat head in bewilderment. The old man sighed then ran a hand down his face as if in great exhaustion.

"I've lived too fucking long," He complained. "I remember when every man in our thing was a man's man. A stand up guy. Now we have rats and canaries and canaries and rats. What the fuck is this? A fucking zoo?"

Fredrico laughed heartily and nodded his head in agreement. Joseph gave him a thinned lip smile but was more interested in his limenchello than the old man's rants. He'd heard them all. Several times in fact. He took a large sip of the lemon flavoured liqueur and smiled in contentment. Old Sonny, the proprietor, could really make his way around the kitchen if nothing else.

"Makes you think," Salvatore said slowly. "Makes you really think. You know. About the people in your life. Then I think of Alberto."

That caused Joseph to look up. The duo briefly met eyes and in that instance Joseph knew that if nothing else Salvatore's grief was real. Here was definitely a man who missed his father as much as Joseph himself did.

As if to emphasis the point Salvatore reached over and patted Joseph's hand.

"God bless his beautiful soul but I just can't help but wonder what he'd say to me if he was stil alive. If he was still here with us right now."

Fredrico snorted into the half filed cup of liminchello he had raised to his lips.

"We know what'd he say." He gasped out between coughing bursts.

"Yeah. He'd say Sal. Sal what's it about. What's life really about if you don't live life the way your pose to. With honour. And integrity."

"Its the only way to live." Joseph agreed. He smiled as he thought back to a million of his father's lectures about being a man. About never backing down and never allowing circumstances to force you into a _canarino_. Life was nothing if you didn't live it stand up the way you were suppose to.

"Exactly!" Salvatore said patting Fredrico's back. "I mean you's take a beating for a friend you don't run you don't betray who you are. _That's_ what makes us what's we are. What separate us from the _mulignan_ and the _bianchi._ What's make us different from all the other _animales._ "

"How long this thing of ours been around?" He asked. "This _costa nostra_?"

"One hundred and thirty years." Fredrico answered before Joseph. Having now recovered from his coughing butt he sipped at the cup much more gingerly than last.

"What's it about," The fat man continued. "What's it about if not the rules?"

"Its about self esteem too." He said. "That's what's wrong with this generation. No respect, no self esteem. I weep for them."

"Self esteem is basic," Said Salvatore heatedly. "You pick it up in the street. That goes with the street. Its not all of them. You gotta remember Robbie,"

Joseph knew he was referring to Robert Desimmone. A soldato who had been indicted two years ago on five cases of murder in the first degree. Not even all the don's contacts could have fought him free of the crimes when it was witnessed by almost a dozen people.

"And my cousin Vito. Now they were stupid, they never listened to me. Was always on that wild west bullshit. They're what? Doing like a thousand years right now? But they never rolled you know that? They never rolled. Because that's the rule! You don't break you don't rat."

The old man leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.

"Angie," He breathed out as if though just saying the word caused him great pain. "Angie. He was a friend of ours. I loved this guy. I loved him. He was like a son to me. But he was a rat. He had to go."

" _Salute_." Fredrico agreed raising his glass. He took another sip. The consiglore reached into his jacket and withdrew a white envelope. Joseph watched him curiously and that curiosity was only enumerated when the older man reached over and handed Joseph the envelope.

"It was deftly done whatever the case and that's a token of our respect." Fredrico explained. "I've been hearing your name for a while now, you're doing your father proud. We need more men like you Joey. I see great things in your future if you keep up all this good work."

Joseph slid open the top and saw several hundreds of dollars. A quick headcount told him it was more than ten thousand and briefly greed took him. He was just about to slip it into his pocket when the mental image of Angelo's bullet ridden corpse flashed before his eyes. He closed his eyes trying his best to stomp down upon the feeling of intense guilt. He suddenly felt the distinct urge to throw up.

Wordlessly Joseph handed back the envelope.

Both Salvatore and Fredrico watched him confusedly. The skinny old consiglore with raised eyebrows and the fat older caporegime with an expression of intense bemusement.

"No cash," Joseph finally said. "Taking the money would be wrong. He was friend of mine, boss. I owed him that much."

"A true man of honour then." Fredrico said with admiration in his voice. He slid the envelope back into his jacket. " _Salute_ Joey. _Salute. Che e vecchia scuola_. I respect that."

The next thirty minutes passed in idle conversation where the two men discussed everything from trouncing the Los Santos Boars had given the Liberty City Penetrators to the state of affairs in the family. Joseph had ordered a plate of spaghetti with extra rich tomato sauce and was halfway through this nectar of the gods when Salvatore addressed him directly.

"Hope you're not too tired from your last bit Joey," The fat man said. "I've got another piece of work I could use your help with."

"Just say the word boss." Joseph said slowly as he chewed.

Wordlessly Fredrico reached into his jacket and produced another envelope which he handed over. Frowning Joseph took it. It contained a plane ticket and a small clear picture of a man Joseph had not seen since childhood.

"You know him?" Salvatore asked.

"Gerald McReary." Joseph tossed the photo down on the table. "Anybody who grew up Purgatory knew him and his damn brothers. Heard he was serving life."

"He was." Said Fredrico. "But the cocksucker made parole. He's getting out tomorrow. That shouldn't be possible. He got nabbed under RICO. No way in hell he should have been able to get out so quick unless...

"Unless someone with a lot of pull wanted him out." Finished Joseph with a thoughtful frown at the picture. McReary was loud, obnoxious, stupid, and trigger happy. Every Irish stereotype all rolled into one freckled ginger haired package. Why someone would go through the trouble of saving him from rotting in a cell was beyond Joseph.

"We came to the same conclusion." Salvatore said after a hearty belch. Joseph forced himself to not wrinkle his nose in disgust.

"He's a threat to our business interests in Purgatory." Fredrico continued explaining. "What use to be his old gang mostly work for us now since he and all his brothers are dead or unaccounted for...but you know the old saying about micks and wops."

" _Comi gani e gatti_." Joseph supplied smiling grimly. Like cats and dogs. As apt a description as any and those that was of both heritage like Joseph was impaled upon the fence.

"Exactly." Salvatore nodded his fat head. "For now everything is peachy because they don't have much choice but if Derrick comes back and goes prancing about his old neighbourhood all his old people will rally to him."

Joseph remained quiet but knew what they said was true. No self respecting Irishman would chose working with Italians over other Irishman. Almost two hundred years of enmity between the two people had seen the bitter rivalry become almost genetic. _Comi gani e gatti_.

You want me to whack him?"

"Well...not unless you have to."

That caused Joseph to look up with an arched eyebrow but Salvatore matched his gaze evenly. It was Fredrico who explained though.

"We would prefer if you can gain his confidence," The consigliere said. "We want to know who got him out and if you can convince him to actually work with us that would be even better. Don't bump him off unless he proves to really be unreceptive to reason.

Gerald McReary is a hero through Purgatory and our Irish friends are already not too happy with us. If it gets out that he had an accident and its traced back to us it might be all it takes to put the wrong ideas in their head if you catch my drift. Wars are expensive and we have bigger problems to focus on right now."

It appeared that they would be no rest for the wicked Joseph thought with a deep sigh.

"I'll get packed." He announced as he rose to his feet.


End file.
